


Wards in Winter

by featherloom



Series: Followers on the Road to Gondolin [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Elf/Human Relationship(s), Friendship, Gen, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 20:37:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5942355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/featherloom/pseuds/featherloom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While on their way to Gondolin, Tuor and Voronwë come across a troubling human tradition that threatens them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wards in Winter

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fanfiction. Characters, places, and concepts from _The Silmarillion_ and other histories of Middle-Earth are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien's Estate and I do not claim any rights to ownership or compensation. This is just for fun and no harm is intended.

* * *

The chimney smoke carved a black trench into the gray winter sky.  The branches in its path were dark and bare of snow, and, from where Voronwë crouched in the mouth of a nearby cave, the thought of a fire seemed almost as delicious as the deer he smelled cooking. 

Tuor had gone ahead to the isolated human settlement, with the intent of retrieving warmer clothes for the elf and food and supplies for both travelers. The young prince - for prince he was, regardless of what he said - had left Turgon’s magnificent armor and weapons behind with Voronwë, wearing the winter furs of a wild man, although he had insisted on keeping Ulmo’s cloak with him.  Voronwë found himself resenting this, as the enchanted cloth always seemed to be warm and smelling of the sea no matter the weather. 

He shivered and retreated deeper into the cave, where the warmth of the stale air took away some of the wind’s bite. Even this deep in the cave, however, Voronwë could still hear the wind chimes that had stranded him here in this cave instead of the cozy warmth of a Man’s cottage. The elf found himself glumly kicking small stones about the cave to distract from his worry. For all that he had insisted to Tuor that the cold did not bother him, winter seemed to be creeping into his bones.  He was missing something; something that tasted of malice and fear.  Casting off his nerves, Voronwë settled himself into a small crevice, well out of the pale daylight, and let the events of that morning stew in his mind.

 

                                                                                     ———————

 

“Here it is.  I told you I heard music.  This explains the lack of melody, in any case, although I know a fair number of smiths in Gondolin who have made instruments that make the wind sound like a minstrel.”  Voronwëpaused for a moment before adding generously, “Of course, the Men of the Wild lack the skill and teachings of the Noldor.”

 

Tuor halted a moment, ignoring his companion.  Voronwë had the distinct impression that Tuor only half-listened to him, aside from when he gave directions or offered advice on survival.  He never seemed enthralled by tales of singing fountains or golden gates twelve men high. When Voronwë had told him of the Great Hall of the Astronomers, with its firmament of diamonds and sapphires and its great brass telescopes, Tuor had stared at him blankly and then asked, carefully, as one might an overexcited child, if Voronwë knew which was the star that pointed north. For why else would anyone ever bother to gaze at the stars?  Voronwë had spent the next night grumbling about blasted Night-Fearers, though if Tuor had heard him, he had been, again, ignored.

 

Tuor finished adjusting the blue cloak across his shoulders and peered up at the unusual ornament hanging from the limb of a nearby oak.  Tuor's face was youthful and handsome but his eyes spoke of a weariness - and wariness - that belied his age.  Voronwë was again struck by how much Tuor reminded him of a young elf (in spite of the beard), although he had lived a harder life than most born within the walls of Gondolin. Most, Voronwë reminded himself, but not all. If I see the sea ever again, he thought, it will be too soon.

 

“Hold here a moment,” Tuor murmured before leaping up to the lowest branch and clambering up to the ornament.  It was a roughly-made thing, an iron circle with a mottled coating of rust, bisected again and again by cords of oiled leather woven in the shape of a five-pointed star.  Hanging from the iron ring were five more cords with hollow iron chimes threaded into them like beads.  As the ornament swayed in the wind like a lazy pendulum, the chimes struck each other and sung out sharp, mournful tones that found echoes in the surrounding forest.  Tuor clasped it in his hand and silenced the chimes with a fist, a worried frown creasing his face.

 

“Are there more?  Can you hear them?”

 

Baffled, Voronwëclosed his eyes and focused his attention on the more distant sounds of iron on iron.  “There are five in total, including the one you have in your hand.  In a circle.”

 

Tuor gave a curt nod.  “Is the circle surrounding something?  A village, or a cabin, perhaps?”

 

“There is a cottage, about a half hour’s walk west through the woods from here, in a small clearing.” Voronwë hesitated. “They appear to be cooking something.  And they have a fire, which your mortal blood could no doubt use.”  Voronwë could have sworn Tuor was grinning as he swung down from the tree, but his expression quickly sobered as he turned his gaze towards the cottage.

 

“I think it is best you stayed here.”  Before Voronwë could open his mouth to argue, Tuor continued, “Come. I felt a warm draft several paces back.”

 

Tuor had been correct, and in a moment they were safe within the shelter of a small cave.  Tuor wasted no time stripping himself of Turgon’s armor and carefully piling it in a corner out of sight from the cave entrance.  Voronwë was still impressed by Tuor’s sheer size, the broadness of his shoulders and the sturdiness of his thick limbs.  If most elves were trees that bowed and danced in the wind, Tuor was a mountain.  It was a wonder orcs did not simply break upon him.  Voronwë had worked tirelessly to quell the shame he often felt when he hid himself behind Tuor in battle, even though the man insisted he worked better as a one-man army.  After years as a sailor on a small vessel, the elf was unaccustomed to feeling useless.

 

His blurted his next thought out before he had the wit to stop it.  “You needn’t leave me here.  I can defend myself.  I am no longer the weak thing you found on the beach.” 

 

Tuor paused in the midst of fastening on his fur cloak and gave Voronwë a kind smile, his weary eyes softening to a warm, blue gentleness that reminded the elf of his mother. “I have never thought you weak, Voronwë, simply ill-fated to be tied to a boor like me.  I only believe, this time, it is better for both of us if you stay here. I will bring you back something warmer to wear.”

 

“I am not bothered by the cold,” Voronwë said automatically, and Tuor nobly held back a laugh in his throat, which only made Voronwë scowl. 

 

“It will make me feel warmer to see you better dressed for snow,” the man managed. 

 

As Tuor approached the cave entrance, Voronwë called after him, a tinge of worry creeping into his voice. “You have insisted we stay together when passing by tribes of orcs and bands of wolves. Why do you leave me behind now?”  Voronwë paused, gathering his courage. “If this is an evil of the Dark Lord, you will need my help.”

 

Tuor sighed.  “This is not the work of Morgoth, Voronwë,” he explained, ignoring the elf’s flinch at the name.  “At least not directly. If it were, I would insist you go first,” he finished with a laugh.  “Rather, this is the work of the fear of Men, but that may be more of a danger to you than all the wolves and orcs east of the Sea.”  Tuor took another breath. “You are always behind me, watching my back.  I ever trust you to see and destroy anything that might entrap us.  But, this time, the danger is from good Men who are simply afraid, and I fear what their terror may inflict upon you.  We may not be able to protect each other if you come with me.”

 

A knot formed in Voronwë’s stomach.  “Those ornaments are wards, are they not?  Are they a curse?  What are they intended to keep out?”

 

“They are not wicked in themselves,” Tuor answered, pulling his fur cloak’s hood over his head as he stuffed Ulmo’s enchanted cloak in his rucksack.  “The armor of Turgon is precious.  Guard it here until I return.” 

 

Voronwë hesitated on the cusp of rebellion, gripping the handle of the small dagger they had discovered for him in Vinyamar.  “What shall I do if you do not return?” He was shocked by how close to a wail the question was as it left him.

 

Tuor leaped up out of the cave, stamping his feet and sending a little avalanche of dusty snow tumbling into the cave mouth.  “Go back to Sirion, Voronwë. Take joy in your flowers and willows. And,” he continued, an impish grin on his face as he peeked back into the cave, “make one of those singing wind chimes you were telling me about.” 

 

Recalling his earlier words, Voronwë flushed with embarrassment and ensconced himself in a small alcove just within sight of the cave mouth, trying to stamp down his growing dread as Tuor’s crunching footsteps faded and were lost in the clamor of the chimes.

________________________

 

The soft light of the ivory winter sky had begun to darken to a sullen pink before Voronwë again heard the sound of footsteps approaching, and he his fingers tightened around his dagger’s hilt when he heard two more people following close at Tuor’s heels approaching the cave entrance.  Crouching low against the cave floor, Voronwë tried to ignore the pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears.

 

“. . . He is still very ill, ma’am.  It would be unwise to follow me into the cave.”  Tuor’s warm voice sounded strained, but he was obviously unhurt, and Voronwë allowed himself to relax.

 

“You hear that, Tad? You’re not to follow me in, you hear?” an older woman’s dry voice answered.  Ever since he had met his first human elder, Voronwë had been fascinated by the way older mortals’ voices seemed to ripen with age, taking on new depth and texture.  This woman’s voice was old and wise, and lacking much patience for fools. 

 

“Thank you, ma’am,” Tuor answered, and Voronwë could not help but mark the depth of gratitude in his voice.  A smaller, younger voice added a fervent “Yes, ma’am,” to the conversation before all three halted at the cave entrance.  Tuor dropped into the cave in one smooth jump before gently lifting an old woman wrapped in a shawl down beside him.  A young boy handed down a basket to her before a sharp word sent him running home. 

 

When the boy’s footsteps had faded into the sounds of the wind and the chimes, the crone turned to Tuor and nodded.  “That’s him gone, then.  So your friend is sick, is he?” The woman’s voice took on a wry tone, and Tuor cast an expectant glance in Voronwë’s direction. The elf returned his stare blankly for a moment before remembering that he was now apparently an invalid.  Uncertainly, he forced air up from his lungs in what he hoped sounded like a cough.  The woman turned to Tuor.  “And you are sure your friend is not a sick bear?” 

 

Voronwë, red-faced, scrambled up to get a better look at Tuor’s new companion.  She was a small woman with a dark, lined face and a nimbus of extraordinary silver hair.  At the sight of Voronwë, her small brown eyes widened and grew dark with fear.  “Hah.  I barely believed it when you told me, traveler, but there he stands, don’t he?  Just like in the stories.”  She shivered in a way that had nothing at all to do with the cold. 

 

Voronwë watched her throat convulse as she swallowed.  When next she spoke, her voice was thin and stretched, and she pointed a trembling finger in the elf’s direction.  “I’d keep your hood close about your head in these parts, if I were you.”  Turning to Tuor, she gave the man a quick nod. 

 

Tuor lifted her out of the cave.  “Would you like me to accompany you back, my lady?” he asked, his hand lingering on hers as she regained her balance in the snow. 

 

“Tad will not have gone far,” the woman answered shortly, “and the sooner I see the back of you and your … friend … the better.”  Voronwë stayed silent as her walk quickened to a run.  Only the elf could hear her cloak rip on brambles as she screamed for the boy to return to her, and for the Lady in the Sun to save them both.

 

\----------------------------------------

 

“You know that I was raised by Grey Elves,” Tuor began as he stirred some of the rich stew the woman had brought with her over the crackling fire.  Voronwë had been examining the clothes Tuor had brought for him.  They belonged to a trapper and fisherman, and, while coarser than he was used to, the shirt, trousers, coat, and cloak were all, he had to concede, warm and well-made.  The boots had even been treated and oiled, and, while not a perfect fit, Voronwë found that with the provided leggings they were snug and warm enough for a journey through the wild in winter. 

 

“Hm?” Voronwë answered, settling the heavy cloak over his shoulders.  His pleasure at his new clothes had temporarily distracted him from the woman’s behavior earlier, but the hesitancy in Tuor’s voice brought the elf’s unease back to the fore. 

 

“I was seven before I saw another human. The first group of refugees fleeing the orc raids arrived in the cave where we lived and pleaded for shelter.  They must have been truly desperate at that point, to seek out the company of elves, I imagine.”  

 

“Did they make charms to ward off the Eldar, as well?” Voronwë spat, and he was as taken aback as Tuor by the venom in his own voice. 

 

Tuor’s eyes narrowed.  “You must understand, Voronwë, that while your people linger and enjoy the bliss of youth eternally, it is the fate of Men to only dwell on this Earth a short time. Imagine living in the wild as a child and seeing an Elf for the first time.  Your people, to us, look – how can I put this?” Tuor let his fingers play over the fire, as though hoping to pluck an idea from the smoke.

 

“You look – magical.  There is not another word for it.  Surrounded by a halo of light, your eyes filled with wisdom and power.  Looking upon one of you is like – like what it must be like for your folk to see the gods.  Even,” Tuor added dryly, “when you’re little more than a heap of rags coughed up by the sea.”  Voronwë’s face heated, but Tuor did not give him a chance to respond.

 

“Now imagine that you are that child again, sixty years later, and you see the same elf.  You are old and shriveled and death is following you like a close friend now, but this elf is exactly the same. The elf is like a ghost at best, a devil at worst.  You start hearing stories – the old tales, from before we crossed the mountains.  Elves and humans didn’t get on very well, from what I hear, and the tales have grown larger with time.  Tales of elves taking away human children and never bringing them back, or tales of pretty young women found drained of blood or youth if they strayed too far into the forest or too close to a certain hollow hill.  That was how some folk – some, not all – thought that your people kept your youth, in the older days – stealing it from humans, drinking their blood.”

 

Voronwë paled.  “I – I – that is preposterous!  Surely after the Noldor arrived and made their alliances with men such tales were recognized as nonsense?”

 

Tuor smiled ruefully.  “You must remember, Voronwë, that many Men will never meet an Elf but in a tale, even now.  Look at where your folk live.  The depths of enchanted forests, fortresses in the far North where only the hardiest warriors go, hidden cities in the depths of impassable mountains.” Tuor cast a pointed look at Voronwë. “I had never laid eyes on a Noldorin elf until I met you.” Voronwë shifted uncomfortably as Tuor continued, “And to many the Noldor are still just thieves of life, plucking away the best men generation after generation for the war against the Enemy.”

 

“It is a war we now have the ability to stop,” Voronwë answered. “With Turgon and Ulmo’s help, I am sure we can stop it.”

 

“Perhaps,” Tuor answered, glancing at Turgon’s armor, still piled carefully in a corner of the cave.  “Although I am not entirely sure Ulmo is as concerned with the fate of Men as he is with that of Elves.”

 

“And yet he chose a Man to be his messenger,” Voronwë answered.

 

Tuor nodded.  “That he did.  Only now I am unsure that his gaze is such an honor as you seem to think.”

 

Voronwë paused in the middle of stirring the stew, momentarily gripped by his own fear of the sea Vala.  The fact that he had been saved by a giant, unseen hand had not softened the memory of watching his friends torn away, drowning, by the waves.  The scars caused by their nails against his palm had stubbornly refused to heal.

 

“You asked me once about the stars, if I ever looked at them,” Tuor continued, his eyes fixed on the feeble light of the crescent moon on the snow outside. “I used to love the stars,” Tuor said with a laugh.  “I remember, vaguely, the Elves teaching me the names of the patterns in the sky. I loved them because my family loved them, and loved to teach me.  When I was alone in the wild for years, the sight of the stars was a comfort to me.” 

 

Tuor’s face darkened.  “Then, I heard the cry of a swan, and stepped into a riverbed to see the bird more clearly.  And I forgot everything.  I forgot the names of the stars.  I forgot the names of the Elves who raised me.  The only thought in my mind was the sea, and surviving to see it.”  Tuor’s hands trembled as he reached into his cloak and pulled out a small, wooden flute the elf had never before seen.  “I had singing, for a bit after that.  I loved to sing, and loved to make music.  I stopped in a valley on the way to the shore to sing, but then I heard the swans again and now – now I cannot remember the way of it.”

 

Tuor met Voronwë’s gaze, grief and fury mingling in his gaze.  “Do you see now why Men might fear the magic of Elves?  All those horrible stories the other children would tell me when they joined us, about how I must have been stolen away from my parents without their knowing it.  They were trying to convince me that I had been enchanted, and yet here I am, fully grown, and enchanted all the same!” Tuor flung his flute across the cavern, and it made a hollow and mournful sound as it bounced against the rock. 

 

Voronwë stilled in the face of Tuor’s fury, finding himself at a loss. He yearned for the presence of his father, or Turgon the King, both of whom remembered the faces and temperaments of the Valar.  Wetting his lips, Voronwë began: “I cannot imagine that Ulmo would place such an enchantment upon you unless the fates of all free peoples depended upon it.  We are, I think, only tools in a far greater plan to save this world from the Enemy.  We cannot be prisoners of fate for any less.”

 

“I am a prisoner of fate!  Just as that man we saw by the lake was a prisoner,” Tuor said.  “I wanted to go after him.  I could have saved him if I had gone after him.”

 

“Or you would have been caught up in his fate,” Voronwë cautioned, reaching across the fire to take Tuor’s hand.  “I told you that a dark shadow was upon him.”

 

Tuor tore his hand away. “Or perhaps he would have been caught up in mine.  This moment in time is our only moment at all in this world, and the plight of your people has stolen it from us!”

 

“It is the plight of your people, as well,” Voronwë cautioned.  “Do not think the Enemy – do not think Morgoth would leave you unscathed after he destroys us.  We have a chance to save Gondolin – to save hope for the future.  We are called to a higher fate.”

 

“Did my higher fate spare one of the elves who fostered me?  One of the men, women, or children who labored in the orcs’ camps with me?”

 

“Do not forget that you were not the only one who was deprived of his companions!” Voronwë snapped as he leapt to his feet.  Tuor sprung back as though he had been beaten, and slowly the fury that had warped his features leeched away until only an empty sorrow remained.  Tuor placed his head in his hands.

 

“I am sorry that your past has been taken from you,” Voronwë said as he retrieved Tuor’s flute from where it had landed, unhurt, in the far corner of the cave.  “Would that mine had been removed as well.  Elves do not forget or remember in the same way Men do.  Your wounds fade over time.  To me, I am always drowning.  My friends are always drowning.  Whenever I remember the moment Ulmo rescued me, it is as if I am returned to it all over again.  I am always drowning,” Voronwë continued, gently taking one of Tuor’s hands and placing the flute in his fingers, “but I am alive today because of you.  I would hope that would bring you some comfort.”

 

“I have said … very cruel things to you, Voronwë,” Tuor muttered, running his fingers over the flute.

 

“You have said nothing of the kind,” the elf answered.

 

“I think I used to be cruel,” Tuor mused, nearly to himself. “I remember beating the children who told me those terrible stories senseless until someone dragged me away.”

 

“I can imagine many things, Tuor, son of Huor, but I cannot imagine you ever being cruel,” Voronwë replied.  Tuor flushed in the firelight.  “Finish the stew.  I’m going to scout around outside.  We’ve still a long way to go before we reach the Hidden City. Perhaps, when we do, your memories will return.”

 

Voronwë waited until Tuor roused and then clambered out of the cave, relishing the cool and clear night air after the sweltering fire.  He paused and listened for a moment before returning to the tree from which the chimes hung.  Removing his knife, he cut through the leather cord in one motion and tucked the ornament away in the palm of his hand. He dropped to the ground and made his way north, towards the sound of a trickling spring.  

 

The elf turned Tuor’s words over in his mind.  He was ashamed to admit that before he had met Tuor the only other mortal Men he had seen were Tuor’s father Huor and his uncle Hurin.  He had not fought in the Nirnaeth, and had only tales of valor, sacrifice, and betrayal upon which to judge Men.  There were many in Gondolin who whispered that the world was better off without them. There had been a time that Voronwë, to his shame, had agreed.  All the power and wisdom of the Eldar, and what had the Hidden People done to improve the lot of Man? Hide and sneer. 

 

Voronwë had become so lost in his thoughts it was a moment before he heard a thick slurping sound mingling with the chatter of the spring.  Stooping low against the ground, Voronwë caught sight of the source: a small goblin, hairy skin matted with grime.  Swallowing a noise of disgust, Voronwë leaped out from the underbrush and slammed his dagger into the creature’s throat.  The thing let out a shocked choke before Voronwë tossed it back into the bushes with a sigh. 

 

The orc’s blood had not polluted the waters of the spring, so Voronwë knelt until the water caressed his forehead and wet his eyelashes as it fell.  “Mighty Ulmo, may your grace be with me,” Voronwë began, and then struggled to find the words for several long moments. “I am bringing this token back to Turgon, to show him that we do the Enemy’s own work for him.”  His fingers tightened around the chimes, which tinkled in the running stream.  “I pray that you show mercy on the great Man you have chosen for this task.  I am told that the Great Music lives on in your waters.  If you seek freedom for our peoples, you will return this music to him. Please, have mercy on both your messengers.”

 

Satisfied, Voronwë rose up on his knees – and looked into the eyes of a human girl.  The child was wrapped in a heavy shawl, a pail barely held in her trembling fingers.  She tried to speak, but managed only a croak.  Voronwë imagined what he must look like to her – an elf, bathed in the light of the stars, surrounded by the tingle of Ulmo’s magic, his hands drenched in blood. 

 

Voronwë’s throat went dry. “Do not be …” he began, raising his hands, but the rest of his words were lost in the girl’s shriek as she flung the pail in his face and ran. 

 

Voronwë swore in a way that would have had him scrubbing his mother’s floors as an elfling as he retrieved his knife and took off sprinting back to the cave.  He found Tuor humming a small tune over the pot of stew. “Leave it!” he gasped.  “I was seen by one of the women from the cottage, I think.  We must be away immediately.”  Pausing, Voronwë picked up the definite sounds of shouting in the distance, and the foreboding yelps of large dogs.  “I fear we will be pursued very soon.”

 

As the two began scooping up supplies, weapons, and armor into sacks and baskets, Tuor shouted: “How were you seen?”

 

“She surprised me,” Voronwë replied irritably, lifting himself out of the cave.  Tuor emerged moments later, Turgon’s halberd drawn. 

 

“I can see that she surprised you,” Tuor replied, nodding towards the elf’s face. Voronwë’s hand flew to his forehead and he flinched to find a swelling knot forming over his left eye.  

 

His face reddened.  “I was praying.”

 

“You were praying so hard you let a girl hit you with a rock?”  The pair had been moving at a steady walk north towards the spring for several minutes now, and the exertion was already showing in the way Tuor had to reach for breaths between words.

 

“It was not a rock; it was a pail!” Voronwë snapped, ignoring Tuor’s snort. “And there was also an orc!”

 

“You should have led with the orc.” As the sounds of pursuit neared them, Voronwë and Tuor began to run.  “A shame,” Tuor continued between one step and the next, “I was looking forward to that stew.  Although I know that you, Voronwë, can run another three days without it.” 

 

“Just run, you oaf,” Voronwë ground out. “Or I will show you what reasons you do have to fear the Eldar.”

 

___________________________

 

The next night, in another cave far away, Voronwë nursed his headache on stream water and jerky, longing for the stew he had not been permitted to taste.  Meanwhile, Tuor the hero of two peoples played his flute to the darkness and sang in the most beautiful voice Voronwë had ever heard, even among all the bards of Gondolin. 

 

Saying a silent prayer of thanks to Ulmo, Voronwë still felt as though the world would not be right again until he generously said: “It sounds well enough for one of the Edain, but you still lack the skill of the Noldor.” 

 

Tuor’s answering laughter lulled him into a sleep untroubled by the chimes that rested, cold and terrible, against his chest.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and thanks for reading!
> 
> One of the most interesting moments for me in the early portion of Tolkien's The Children of Hurin is when Turin tells us about the moment he sees elves for the first time. It's shortly before he starts asking his childhood servant Labadal questions about the fate of Men and Elves, before even Lalaith dies in the first chapter. A young Turin once and once only as a child sees Fingon and his lords marching. Turin was the son of a great lord of Men with close alliances to Elves, and yet he barely saw hide nor hair of them for much of his early childhood. Ergo, most humans, even in the Silmarillion, probably never even came into direct contact with them. 
> 
> Tolkien loved to integrate all kinds of fairy stories into his work, and, with greatest respect to the master, I wanted to explore what some of the darker and more frightening tales of fairies (changelings, disappearances, curses, etc.) would look like in the minds of the Men of Middle-Earth. Luckily Tuor is here to build some bridges.


End file.
